


Experimentations on Theories of a Relationship

by PetraTodd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alley Sex, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst, Art Thief AU, BDSM, Conceiving a child, Dark!Molly, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Face Slapping, Face-Sitting, First Kiss, Hair-styling, Humor, Newly Devirginized Sherlock, Oral Sex, Possessive Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Pygmalion and Galatea, Teenlock, Unilock, newlyweds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:58:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 14,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetraTodd/pseuds/PetraTodd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short Sherlolly fics, one per chapter. See each chapter for descriptions!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Elemental

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a collection of short fics too brief to warrant their own posting, many of which began as prompt fills on tumblr or Sherlolly.com. The tags above go with various stories. The description for each fic, with any applicable *warnings,* will be at the beginning of each chapter. 
> 
> Thanks to Lexie for the title!
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter 1 Description: Sherlock finds his own way of communicating the important things that need to be said.

“I love you,” Molly breathed into his ear, her breath short from their exertions.  Sherlock nuzzled her throat without responding, his curls brushing her cheek. His weight atop her was warm and reassuring, but in less than a minute he was jumping from the bed with a new idea.

She hadn’t meant to say it. The relationship was still so new, so foreign to him.

Molly sighed and sat up, pulling the sheet over her lap. He was never one to bask in the glow, but she suspected blurting out her feelings for Sherlock had driven him to need space.

He paced around the room madly for a moment, running his hands through his hair and muttering under his breath.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to…It’s too soon. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I mean I do love you, but…it’s alright.” Molly laughed self-consciously. She wasn’t going to take back her confession, but she wished she had shared her feelings with more forethought. She was his first girlfriend; he would likely need more time to determine his feelings.

Sherlock stopped pacing abruptly and crawled back into bed with a sketch pad and a pencil in hand. His elegant hands flew across the paper, swirling circles and filling in dots.

“A new experiment?”

He shook his head without looking at Molly and narrowed his eyes at the drawing. The concentric circles covered the paper, three sets, three drawings really. She watched as he drew scores of dots on the lines of the first and third sets of circles. The middle circle set, only eight dots.

The familiarity of the diagram kicked in.

“Oh, oxygen, right! The configuration of electrons. The others though, I’m not sure, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen those. Not common elements of the body, anyway.” She leaned over and studied the picture.

He turned to meet her eyes, and he smiled. “You don’t recognize them. Figure it out while I’m showering.” He brushed a kiss over her lips and slid back out of bed. Molly admired the rear view as he strolled from his bedroom to the bathroom.

She scrutinized the circles, counting the electrons tediously. She lost track of the first one, and had to start over, but finally she completed the counts. Wrapping the sheet around her body, she crossed the room to examine the periodic table of elements on the wall of Sherlock’s bedroom.

And there they were- the atomic numbers matching up neatly.

Americium. Oxygen. Rhenium.

Am O Re

Molly felt her face burning and a grin spreading over her face.

_Amore._

 “I couldn’t spell the other word with table symbols.” He had snuck back into the room when her back was turned.

Molly rushed into his arms, losing her sheet in the process.

“Clever boy.”

“I’ll get better at saying it,” Sherlock murmured into her hair.

She smiled against his chest.

“You said it just fine.”


	2. Solitaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Molly were the real Moriarty?
> 
> warnings: violent thoughts

She had never dared hope the game would go on for so long, but he was a partner like no other.

There were days when she forgot she wasn’t really Molly Hooper, and she earnestly cheered him on as he solved the gruesome crimes that found their way to her morgue. Watching him simmer with the energy of the mysteries she provided was enough for her, for a long time. She worried sometimes his fire would burn out too quickly.  He didn’t eat enough. When the loneliness he didn’t even know he had threatened to reduce his efficiency, she made certain he found the ideal flatmate. It took only a few phone calls to make sure her coworker Stamford was in the right place at the right time.  Their first meeting went better than she could even hope.

She grew restless over time, and one night during a long soak in the tub she conceived of the fun that could be had with Semtex vests and her favorite snipers. She had seen up close how quickly Sherlock worked, smiling over mutilated corpses while he dazzled Molly with his deductions. (He _thought_ she was dazzled anyway. Occasionally, he really did amaze her, and her body hummed with warmth for hours afterward. Her post-mortems were finished in record time on those days.)

She'd hoped that after the game with the cabbie that Sherlock might see through the masquerade with Jim, but she was disappointed. Another test failed. It was so easy to make dying men jump, or pull a trigger. Death was not a mystery that Sherlock Holmes seemed to be able to grasp. _“Thank you,”_ Jim had said to her, holding back tears. He was a smart man in his own way, a good employee before the tumors took hold. He enjoyed the starring role in the endgame, and Molly was a woman of her word. Jimmy’s mother would be taken care of until her dying day.

Having Jim leave her phone number in the lab that day was another calculated risk, but one needed to assess Sherlock’s arrogance. She'd begun to feel her hopes were in vain and that a swift termination might be in the near future. She wouldn’t be the first woman to idealize the wrong man, she thought ruefully as she considered how she would eliminate him.

Oh, but the Van Buren supernova deduction in the forged painting-that was splendid. She almost purred to think of it. Faith restored, time and time again, even with the temptation of Irene Adler. The Woman lived, but Molly was content with that. She had no desire to hunt her down and turn her into footwear. Jim’s comical threats made her laugh, but were hardly good business sense. Besides, the Woman could become a valuable piece again in the future to manipulate Sherlock. It would be foolish to remove her out of petty jealousy.

And it would be jealousy. Molly had no illusions about the feelings that had ripped through her when she saw Irene’s mouth hovering over Sherlock’s, and his fingertips grazing over her pulse.

Molly remembered the cool brush of his lips over her cheek, the polite kiss of regret after he’d deduced her intentions. In a moment of sentimentality, she’d bought him a small antique surgical knife rumored to belong to H.H. Holmes (illegally obtained, but Molly would feign ignorance). She’d had to look away while he smugly rambled on about her having love on her mind, because her first instinct had been to grab the gift back from him, unwrap the knife, and ram it into his gut.

But she held her temper, and the game rolled on. Her surveillance cameras kept her apprised of his actions from afar. Jim played his part beautifully, though she thought the dancing during the robbery was a tad over the top. Molly laid the trail, set out the breadcrumbs, and made sure the scent of suspicion caught the attention of NSY. The game reached a fevered pitch, and she found Sherlock waiting for her in the dark, with a word.

“You.”

In the beginning, he was only dimly aware of her presence in the periphery of his second home, Barts. She was an aide, an ear, a pair of hands to hoist the body, and he never questioned why she would break every rule for him, or let him bring home any body part he wanted. She encouraged him, and after three years, he was _ready._

Jim was waiting for him on the roof.

She would be waiting for him, and together, they would go on from there.


	3. Sherlock's Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyone as brilliant as Sherlock is going to be great at sex, right? Well...maybe not right away.

“That was a success, I’d say.” Sherlock smiled proudly.

“Mm.”

“Obviously, observation is a skill that applies to many areas.”

“Many, not all.” Molly nibbled on her fingernail.

Sherlock slipped a cigarette out of the packet in his coat pocket and searched for matches for a minute before remembering Molly’s flat rules. He sighed tragically. She smiled at him in the darkness.

“Right, no smoking unless I’ve been seriously injured and cannot walk. Perhaps I can convince you to change your mind?” Still nude, Sherlock tucked the cigarette back into the packet and slipped under the sheet. He stroked the soft skin of her inner thigh.

“Hmmm, doubtful, but you can try.” Molly snuggled closer. Sherlock tipped her chin up to kiss her until she moaned and wiggled beneath him. His fingers slipped between her legs inside her- and then Molly’s thighs clamped shut as she yelped.

“Stop! Ow!”

Sherlock pulled back, settling his hand on her stomach. His face was set in frown lines. “You’re still tender?”

Molly cringed. “Yeah a bit. The angle was- it was a little- we just need some practice, is all.” She twisted her face into a cheerful expression he recognized and something surged in his gut. Horror.

She was wearing the falsely optimistic expression she used with medical students at Barts when they had botched up royally and she was attempting to encourage them nonetheless.  

And she was using it on _him_ after they had _just had sex for the first time_.

_“Practice._ Oh I see. Well then.” Sherlock sat up, pushing aside the covers. He jumped out of bed, pulled on his clothing, and exited Molly’s bedroom.

“Gosh, I’m sorry, love, I think I said it wrong. There’s always an adjustment when you’re with someone new.” Molly stood at the doorway, wrapped in her sheet.

“No, you said it fine.” Sherlock’s mind raced. The horror was receding. He couldn’t think about that now. There were times when emotion was useful, like when he was making love to Molly. But right now he needed ruthless clarity. For that, he needed to leave immediately.

Seven days later, after sleepless nights, dozens of hours spent researching online, watching videos and after an epically uncomfortable discussion with John Watson about the nuances of romantic sex, Sherlock turned up on Molly’s doorstep, freshly showered with a bouquet of tulips and a bag of supplies from a discreet adult shop.

“I realize I haven’t phoned, but I’ve solved a string of robberies and I believe I’ve also managed to rectify our other problem as well.”

Molly stared dumbfounded. “You could have texted, you arse! If you think I’m just going to forgive you for running off because you bring flowers-“

“Not just because of that.” Sherlock thrust the flowers at her. “I’ve also managed to locate the G-spot. May I come in?”


	4. What Belongs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson makes a move on Molly, and Sherlock steps in. 
> 
> Warnings for: Anderson being a very aggressive ass in this one, and possessive!Sherlock

“Nice work on the Canterbury post-mortem. Heard it was poison after all. I suspected as much at the scene. Glad to see you followed up on my recommendation to screen for it.”

Molly smiled tightly, and looked away from Anderson’s smug face. She was starting to regret letting her coworkers drag her to the Fox after work for a drink. Running into the snide crime scene analyst wasn’t that surprising, since the pub was a favorite of both the Met and Barts’ staff. Tonight however Anderson was remarkably smarmy even for him. Every word he spoke carried with it the bitter stink of gin and tonic.

He had been dropping by the morgue more and more the last couple months, on one pretext or another. Molly was polite and professionally helpful, but she was uncomfortable with the way his eyes zeroed in on her breasts every time they spoke. He wasn’t the first man she’d come across who stared, but he’d begun crossing lines, “accidentally” brushing her bottom with his hand the last time he stopped by. He’d apologized profusely, but the smirk on his lips told her how he really felt.

And now her back was pressed against the bar while she stood between two bar stools. The room was crowded, and a crush of people trapped her in place, leaving only a few inches between her and Anderson.

“I’m separated now. Just so you know. All on the up and up.” He smiled again and leaned into her, setting his free hand on the bar just behind her.

“That’s nice,” she said, sipping her bottle of beer and scanning the pub for a sign of her coworkers. They were lost in the crowded and dimly lit room, it seemed. She realized there was no way of getting out of the situation without asserting herself.

“You have a really nice body under that lab coat, has anyone ever told you that? Sweet and pretty Molly.” Anderson set his drink on the bar, the alcohol sloshing over the side in his inebriated state. He wiped his wet hand on his trousers and then grabbed at her waist.

Molly slapped it away, and said in her firmest voice, _“No_ thank you.” She tried to place her hands on her hips to look more imposing, but she was backed too tightly against the bar. She settled for the coldest stare she could muster.

Undeterred and fueled by liquor, Anderson pressed on, planting his hand on the other side of her body, trapping her further. Molly gulped and lifted her leg, preparing to knee him in the groin.

He slurred, “You know what your problem is, you morgue girls, is you’re just so _cold_ -“

A long pale hand appeared between their bodies, peeling Anderson’s hands off the bar. Molly turned just in time to see the rest of Sherlock slide out of the crowd.

“Evening, Anderson. Oh I see your wife’s finally giving you a divorce. Probably due to her own affair this time, with a tall blond fellow. _Ouch.”_ Sherlock’s icy scorn was clear even over the music in the noisy room.

Relief flooded Molly and she smiled up at Sherlock. He gave her a brief expressionless glance and turned back to Anderson.

The detective pulled his wallet from his pocket, fumbled it, and dropped it. It landed at the other man’s feet.

Anderson laughed. “Can’t hold your liquor, Holmes? Not surprised. Here.” He snorted and knelt, picking up the wallet.

Sherlock smiled now and Molly saw his blue eyes narrow with purpose. He bent toward Anderson, and what happened next would appear to any onlookers to be nothing more than two drunken fools bumping heads.

Sherlock’s forehead crashed into the bridge of Anderson’s nose, and the man fell to the ground, shrieking and clutching his nose. The leather wallet fell to his side, forgotten. Blood seeped out between his fingers, and the people around them stepped back, alarmed and excited.

The detective grabbed a handful of cocktail napkins off the bar and dropped them onto Anderson’s head and lap. He then bent over and scooped up his wallet.

When Sherlock looked back at the man, his eyes were cold and unblinking, and the warning was clear. He glanced at his wallet, over to Molly and then back to Anderson.

“In the future, I trust you’ll be more careful when it comes to touching what belongs to me.”


	5. The Tiberius Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU: Sherlock Holmes goes into art theft instead of the consulting detective business, and encounters Molly Hooper at a museum.
> 
> Warnings: someone gets tied up

The marble pedestal chosen to display the bust of Tiberius had been made for this piece, with no object to cost. It perfectly complimented the priceless sculpture just arrived at the museum Sherlock stood in.

What a shame it was that he wouldn’t be taking the pedestal with him when he stole the bust.

* * *

Five minutes before closing, Molly was completing her duties as a guide and making certain the visitors had cleared out. She rounded the corner into the Roman gallery and nearly ran headlong into a dark-suited man wearing an elegant blue scarf and leaning on an umbrella.

“Sir! Sir, you must’ve missed our closing announcement. We close at seven here.” She smiled helpfully and gestured toward the main foyer where the lone security guard stood, ushering stragglers out. The museum was a small private one, underfunded and relying heavily on volunteers like her. Restoring masterpieces for a major museum in Bloomsbury paid the bills, but she loved sharing underappreciated art in a tiny gallery with new people.

“I’m aware of your closing time.” The man turned from the bust he was admiring, and his sharp gaze zeroed in on Molly. Hands curled around the umbrella handle, he gestured toward the man in the foyer. “I’m also aware that Bernard there has a substantial gambling problem, and is easily distracted by his perpetual need for a cup of tea.”

“I…sorry?” Molly stumbled. The security guard did have a scratch card habit, and he was always checking race scores on his phone. How on earth did this man know that, and why comment on it? She glanced back at the guard, who ambled down the western hallway toward the office where he spent most of his day, brewing fresh pots.

The man’s eyes followed the last family exiting the museum. “In addition, I’ve also deduced that over sixty percent of the cameras in this facility don’t function, including the ones in this gallery.”

Molly’s mouth dropped open, and a slight smile lit up his angular features. He looked down at this wristwatch to check the time, his dark curls bouncing on his forehead. For a mad, fleeting moment, she thought, _My god, he’s really lovely. And barmy._

She spun around to search out Bernard, but he was long gone. As she turned, she felt long fingers curl around her arms, pulling them together. A plastic tie slipped over her hands, zipped tight around her wrists, and the blue scarf that had been draped around his neck covered her mouth to smother her surprised protest. A few seconds later, her legs were secured and she had to lean into the man or fall to the floor.

“I’m not going to hurt you, but I do need your cooperation while I remove the Tiberius bust. I’ll be gone in less than ninety seconds. You seeing my face is irrelevant- I have no need to harm you. You’re aware of procedures in the event of a crime?” His low baritone voice was close to her ear. “Nod or shake your head?”

She nodded, and Molly felt a curious calm fall over her. Her pounding heartbeat slowed. She always knew that theft was a possibility but it was so rare that anyone bothered. So rare that the board had been delaying getting new cameras and sensors installed for five years, for budgetary reasons.

_He won’t hurt me. I’m not fighting_. But as she thought, a surge of anger rose in her.

Molly craned her neck back to watch him as the man steered her toward a bench. The only other guide wouldn’t come around this gallery for at least ten minutes, and Bernard was locking the back doors. The shop cashier was locked in her office counting money safely. The thief had timed it perfectly.

She grunted and looked expectantly at the man. She tried to speak but the scarf muffled her. He quirked an eyebrow up at her.

“Make it quick. Do not scream.” He tugged the scarf down.

Molly cleared her throat. She focused on that pool of calm in her gut, and met his eyes, speaking slowly. “I just want you to know that I’m going to get that statue back. It’s beautiful and it should belong to everyone, not stuffed in a rich man’s vault.”

The thief laughed, a short bark of surprised enjoyment. His eyes fell to her hands. He cradled her small hands in his palms. “I was distracted. A policeman’s daughter, I see now. Oh- but he’s dead. But your older brother's a policeman. And you’re a restorer…yes, you’ll have help. Good.”

“Good?” she said incredulously. “You want me to find you?”

“You _won’t_ find me, but the chase might be amusing.”

“Why steal something you can come see here for free?” she asked, feeling her outrage grow.

The thief shrugged, and his blue eyes warmed as they met hers.

“Because I’m bored. But this is turning out to be very interesting.” He plucked her nametag off her uniform blazer. “Molly Hooper.”

He drew the scarf over her mouth again and tightened it. He hopped up with a spring in his step, and strolled back to the bust. He scooped it off the pedestal, not flinching when the alarms finally went off as he triggered the weighted pedestal sensor. He stuffed the bust into a sack he drew from his jacket, and tossed her nametag into the bag. He tucked the umbrella under his arm.

“Looking forward to the chase, Miss Hooper. Try not to bore me. I’ll even give you a headstart. The name’s Sherlock Holmes.”

He saluted her, and darted out the front door as Bernard came running down the hall, breathing heavily and waving his hands frantically.

Twenty minutes later, Molly sat quietly as the police swarmed around the gallery. They asked her the same questions over and over, while she fumed over the theft and ran her fingers over the soft blue scarf in her lap.


	6. Safehouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock make contact when he's on the run and far from everything he knows.

_He doesn’t mean for it to happen, there in Krakow._

They’ve met in the falling-down loft he’s been staying at, in a warehouse half a kilometer outside city limits- one of Mycroft’s shabbier safehouses. It’s been four months since their contact in Brussels, and his work since then has grown grimmer. He’s watching her unwind a sea-green scarf from around her throat; a charity shop find, no doubt. The threads are worn and soft, the flower pattern imperfect but arresting. The material slips from between her fingers, landing on her toes, and Molly laughs, the echo cutting through the cold silence of the room. She shrugs with a dimple in her cheek. Before she can bend, he rolls his eyes and scoops the scarf up gracefully.

He finds London in the cheap cut and the stitch, and Barts in the snags and pulls on the worn fabric. The edifices of his city rise to mind as he stares at the scrap of material in his hands. A wave of nauseating homesickness rolls through Sherlock. He lifts the scarf to his nose, expecting to smell car exhaust, the stale mustiness of winter, and the bitter chemical bite of the morgue.

But instead the lightness of vanilla and lemon fills his nose. Sherlock blinks and exhales, lowering his hands. The muscles of his stomach unclench and the nausea recedes. Her scent blots out everything else until he can think of doing nothing but what he does next: pressing Molly Hooper against the wall of the decaying warehouse and crushing his mouth against hers.

The scarf flutters to her toes again. Sherlock is furiously determined to pinpoint the source of each scent and Molly tilts her neck, slipping off her coat to open more of herself to him.

In the gray morning, with her body shivering against his in the creaking bed, Sherlock will promise himself that it won’t happen again. He didn’t mean for it to happen in Krakow. It was a terrible idea, with danger still looming.

But then he didn’t mean for it to happen in Brussels either.

It seemed that Molly always knew where to look for him when he went to hide.

 


	7. A Study in Sequels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What a typical post-case evening looks like at 221B, with Molly and Sherlock now in an established relationship.

“’A Study in Scarlet?’ Oh _please,_ John. I didn’t think your titles could get any worse but you have reached and proved me wrong.” Sherlock huffed and slammed the laptop closed. With a sigh, he heaved himself onto the sofa.

“What do you mean?” John called from the kitchen where he was preparing steaks. “It’s a copycat killing based on the cabbie murders. The last victim this time was all in red…It’s like a sequel. It’s a perfect title. Go with me on this. Tell him, Molly.”

Molly shrugged and shifted over on the sofa to make room for her boyfriend. Instead of sitting beside her, Sherlock turned sideways, lying with his head in her lap and his feet dangling over the side of the sofa. He’d been awake for two days on the case, and shadows were forming under his eyes. He closed his eyes, and Molly felt the tension easing from his body.

“I have to admit…it’s a little too cute, John. _Obvious,_ almost.” Molly wrinkled her nose. “Sorry!” She ruffled Sherlock’s hair and he smiled up at her, his eyes hooded. Molly bent down and kissed his forehead.

“What?! That’s bull. He’s rubbing off on you.” John stuck his head through the doorway. “You were much more sensible before you started dating that prat.”

“Hey!” Molly protested. “I was not! Wait. Don’t even say it, Sherlock.”

“Wouldn’t dream it.” His eyes drifted shut again. “I don’t see what the point of writing up a case is anyway if you’re going to leave out pertinent details. The state of the killer’s flat was crucial in determining his final location. Hardly your best work, John.”

“Do you really think the general public needed to know about the murderer’s lair filled with sex swings, fresh produce and massive amounts of lubricant?”

“It was _vital_ information, John.” And the two men were off again debating the subject, though Sherlock never opened his eyes.

Molly carded his hair between her fingers, happy to have her boyfriend home safe. She smiled across the room at John, grateful as ever for his steady friendship that kept Sherlock grounded. She wasn’t sure their relationship would have survived the first few months without John’s guidance in the art of considerate dating and empathy.

The pointless argument trailed off as John finished making the meal. Molly stroked Sherlock’s scalp and massaged his shoulders while waiting and by the time the steak was on the table, he was sound asleep.


	8. Swaplock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Molly were the consulting detective and Sherlock were the pathologist.

When she first strode into his morgue, it took Sherlock ten minutes to ask if she even belonged there. Molly Hooper’s self assurance and rapid-fire questioning about the deceased left no room for curiosity of his own. He was in a daze, stunned by the petite woman with dark eyes who cut him to the quick, and he didn’t get her name until after she left. “Hooper,” the silver-haired Scotland Yard DI explained with a grin. “Molly Hooper. A  consulting detective. You’ll get used to her.”

He never did though. Her strangeness drew him in a way he couldn’t explain. She was a bundle of cheerful energy zooming around the morgue on cases, and he was sucked into her world. But she was equally ruthless and cold as necessary, never allowing emotion to interfere with her deductions. When she smiled at him with a dimple in her cheek, and asked him to wheel a body out especially, he couldn’t resist even though her smile didn’t reach her eyes. The other pathologists at Barts laughed and said Hooper never even bothered with fake smiles for them. He was her pathologist. Some claimed she had been friendlier a few years before, before her father had died **.  
**

She never outright refused his hints at going for coffee, and she also never dated anyone else. The dance confused him, and kept his hopes alive. But time passed, and his hopes began to falter. And then came Adler. A con-man Casanova, according to the Yard, and Sherlock wasn’t even allowed the freedom of hating the one Molly preferred before the Man was cold on a slab in Sherlock’s morgue. He couldn’t loathe a dead man. Instead, he mourned the lost possibility of Molly. **  
**

Something was happening, but he didn’t know what. His uneasy friendship with her resumed after the disastrous Christmas of Adler. The criminal Moriarty was free again and Molly was pensive. He sensed she was unusually distracted. Without speaking, she watched him work, and Sherlock was nearly finished examining the blood sample when she spoke.

"I think I’m going to die, Sherlock." Her voice was flat. Sherlock looked up stunned, but Molly slipped off the stool and vanished from the lab.

That night, she returned to him in the darkness; telling him how she had always trusted him, her face was turned away in shame. And then, the last confession. She turned to him, her eyes naked with fear.

"What do you need?" Sherlock was expecting a methodical list: corpses, chemicals, blood packs, electronics, and more. Her response was far more staggering.

"You."

Molly slipped into his arms, locking her hands tightly around his waist under his coat. Her fingers were cold and shaky against his back. Sherlock was too surprised for a moment to react. Then his arms settled around her shoulders and he simply held her, warming her with his body. Her shivering calmed. 

"You can do this. You’re the smartest person I know," he said softly. 

"Yes, that’s true," Molly agreed. She grinned, and her eyes sparkled. Her hands slid out from under his coat, and snaked up around Sherlock’s neck. Molly rose up on her tiptoes and pressed a light kiss to his mouth. 

"However, you do know rather a lot about dying, which will come in handy tomorrow. Should we get started?" 

His response was lost when Molly tugged him down to take his mouth again.


	9. Exploration of the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly are partners in an astronomy course at university, but she has a slightly more personal exploration on her mind.

“I can’t see anything. This bloody telescope is broken.” Sherlock squinted through the eyepiece and slapped away a mosquito nibbling at his arm. The grass was tall in the field in late spring, disguising their parked car from the farmer who might not appreciate uni brats trespassing on his land. Insects buzzed through the field, drawn by the roses growing wild and the patch of sweet-smelling jasmine blooming underfoot.

Sherlock shifted the legs of the stand a few inches, steadying the equipment. Peering through the lens again, he asked, “How many degrees over is Venus?”

Molly glanced at the chart laid on the car bonnet, and then flipped it closed. A look of determination came over her face. She smoothed her hair back, straightened her sundress and joined Sherlock by the telescope.

_Do or die, Molly,_ she told herself.

“Look over about fifteen degrees east. I thought you were one of the top sciences students, Sherlock.”

“ _The_ best, not one of,” he replied scornfully. “Astronomy however is useless. A waste of space in my mind. I’ve a new journal on criminal pathology waiting at my flat. What’s the point of being out in a field in the middle of the night when there aren’t even any murderers about?”

“I can think of a few reasons,” Molly remarked under her breath. His nose was wrinkling in the way that made her want to kiss away the lines forming between his eyes.

“This equipment is faulty, clearly.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms in annoyance. He made to step back, but encountered Molly blocking his way.

“No, silly. I can fix it. Turn back. Go on,” she prodded him. She summoned her courage and set her hands on his shoulders, turning him around forcefully. “Look in the eyepiece again, through the glass.” She kept her hands on him, relishing the warmth of his body close to hers in the night.

Molly reached up and covered his right hand on the focusing wheel with her own, showing him how to adjust the knobs and use the finderscope properly. After a moment, his tense shoulders relaxed, and she reached around to settle her left hand on his opposite hip.

“Losing my balance,” she said with a soft laugh.

“Mmhmm,” he nodded noncommittally. She felt his steady breathing where their bodies met, his back almost flush against her belly and chest.

“Do you see it now? The large star right ahead- only it’s not really a star, it’s a planet. Sometimes it’s visible with the naked eye, but not tonight.”

“It’s…beautiful.” Sherlock’s harsh voice had softened, and she felt his breathing faster now.

“I thought you hated astronomy.” Drawing on every ounce of raw nerve she possessed, Molly slid her left hand around to settle on his firm abdomen. His curly head dropped forward and she sensed his scrutiny.

Her heart hammered and she felt a wave of despair. He was trying to find some way to reject her blatant overture. Not that he was ever tactful, but perhaps he was trying to save their lab partnership?

He turned and his hand slid away from the telescope, away from her palm. Cool air filled the space between their bodies now.

Molly steeled herself for the inevitable rejection. She stared at her feet, swallowing hard. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment.

Until his long fingers tipped her chin back up, and she saw sparkles of amusement in his pale blue eyes, and the trace of a smile.

“If you had decided upon a course of action before coming out there, I’d have been spared bug bites, Molly. And I might find astronomy useless, but there isn’t any scientific equipment I can’t master,” he boasted.

Molly frowned at the telescope, and scratched her arm. “You mean to say you…”

Sherlock slid his arms around her waist, walking her backward until she was pressed between his thighs and the side of the car.

  
“I seem to recall another reason to be out in a field at night after all, even when there aren't any murderers about.”

He grinned cockily, and Molly barely had time to laugh before his mouth covered hers.


	10. A Walk in the Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly befriends an elderly woman in the park, and shares with her her feelings about a certain detective.

Molly exited the shop with two coffees in her hands, and a sack tucked under her arm. She crossed the busy street and headed down the path by the pond until she found who she was looking for on a bench.

“You really didn’t have to do that, sweetie,” the petite elderly woman croaked out as Molly passed her a cup. She scratched under the filthy scarf wrapped around her head. Thin white hair peeked out from under the red scarf, and her shoulders were hunched with age. “Got my free cuppa at the shelter this morning; that’ll hold me.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Molly reassured her with a smile. “I’m on my lunch and I thought we could have it together since we had such a nice chat yesterday. I was hoping you’d be here today.” She rummaged around the sack, pulling out a warm beef sandwich and passing it to the homeless woman. She withdrew another for herself, and folded back the paper wrapping. The two women ate in easy silence, watching two young boys feed the ducks. The breezes were coming on strong, but the afternoon was bright and the air fresh, and Molly felt less frayed with every passing minute.

“Have you seen your young man again? The one you were on about yesterday?” The older woman grinned, displaying a roughened row of stained teeth. She picked at the sandwich, and nodded in satisfaction after taking another large bite.

“Oh he’s not _my_ young man. I don’t know how I got started talking about him at all.” Molly ducked her head to hide her smile. The woman had started chatting to Molly in the park the day before when the pathologist offered her a few pounds, and somehow she’d wound up complaining about the gorgeous detective who tormented her weekly with his alternating pattern of purposeful flirting and brutal coldness.

Yesterday morning he’d been particularly tormenting, asking Molly for a piece of her hair to use for an experiment. Only instead of simply snipping a piece off the end of a lock, he’d sunk his hands deep into her hair, his fingers rubbing against her scalp for a minute, and _then_ he’d cut off a piece. It was bizarre even for him. She couldn’t stop blushing a good ten minutes afterward.

“He came by this morning again. Solved this complex case after only a minute of looking through a microscope. I can’t explain how he works, precisely. He sees everything and really understands. He’s the most amazing man I’ve ever known. I love how his brain works. And how good he is even when he pretends he doesn’t care about the people he helps.” Molly nibbled on her sandwich and took a sip of coffee. “He noticed I was using a new soap today, and said it was nice. And then he left. Usually he says those things _before_ he asks to see the body. Men. I’ll never understand them.” She laughed and looked at her companion. “I’m so sorry to ramble again. I never got your name yesterday.”

  
“Vera,” the woman replied. Her eyes were thoughtful and sharp, despite the dirtiness of her face and hands. “My husband was like that. Drove me mad, but I wouldn’t settle for anyone but him. No matter how far away he seemed, he always came back to me. Wanted to be left alone in his study for days, sometimes, but when he came out, he was mine.” She smiled crookedly. “If he was yours, really yours, every day, could you forgive him for the bad days? And when he’s older and not so pretty anymore, and even more set in his ways?”

“Yes,” Molly answered firmly. She looked Vera in the eye, and nodded without a shred of doubt in her mind. “I’ve seen him when he was at his worst, and it was…not good. _Yes_ ,” she said again without hesitation.

Vera chewed on the last of her sandwich and chugged down the coffee.  “Do you know, girl, I believe you. Well, I’ve got to be going. Thank you for lunch, dearie.” She tossed the crumpled up wrapping and the empty cup into the bin by the bench.

“I hope I see you soon. Um, if you ever need anything, if you get ill or whatever, here. Or if you want to get lunch, it’s on me.” Molly shyly handed her one of her business cards.

Vera squinted at the card.  “You’re sweet. Good day, Molly Hooper.” She waved and waddled down the path, around the curve and out of sight. Molly watched her fade from view, and wished she could do something more for the woman who’d been so kind as to listen to her when she needed it most.

* * *

Vera walked through the trees, stretching her legs more as she walked. By the time she reached the far of the pond, invisible to people on the other side, she was walking straight with her legs striding down the paved pathway. She stopped at a bench, set down her sack, and sighed with relief as she tugged the scarf off her head.

“That didn’t take long.” Sherlock’s crisp voice interrupted her as she yanked the cheap wig off her head and threw it in the rubbish bin, along with the soiled scarf. She shook out her bright silver hair from the bun at the back of her neck.

“Yes, she’s rather chatty. She’d cave in under a minute in interrogation.” Vera used a wet wipe to scrub the dirt from her face and hands. “Of course she’s not likely to be interrogated, but still. You’re sure about her?”

“Yes, Mummy. I agreed to the meeting, but I still fail to see the need for subterfuge. She doesn’t lie. If you want to know, simply ask.”

“I know that now,” Vera agreed, shedding the faded gray cardigan she’d been wearing and replacing it with a clean purple jumper from her sack. “Once she’s yours, you might teach her a thing or two about seeing through disguises. This isn’t one of my better ones.” She drew a compact mirror from her sack, and wiped the gray substance from her teeth. She wrinkled her face in disgust and spat onto the ground. “Ought not to have bothered with the teeth, she wouldn’t have noticed.  She’s too dreamy.” Vera paused. “But she loves you. Poor girl. No help for it. Go to her before she figures out she’s too good for you.”

Sherlock had the good grace to look sheepish. “What if she recognizes you when you meet again?”

Vera pulled out her mobile and punched out a text message. “She’ll forgive me. If she can overlook all the flaws you inherited from your father, she’ll certainly overlook a little deception like this.” She stood up, and they watched as an anonymous luxury vehicle pulled up alongside the park.

She rose and kissed his cheek. Then she cupped her son’s face and broke into a grin. “Besides, darling, I get the feeling she rather enjoys people who keep her on her toes.”


	11. Lantern

“Sherlock, what kind of shack are you in that gets _wifi?_ ”

The visual onscreen tilted as Sherlock shifted in the darkness, adjusting the laptop. His face was illuminated by the sickly yellow light of a lantern hanging from rough walls behind him.

“Not as bad as all that,” he said curtly. “Storage shed. Weak signal. Behind an estate in Czech…no, Slovakia. I think.” He furrowed his brow, and Molly saw sweat breaking out across his forehead. He coughed, and the wet, wracked sound of it made her blood run cold.

“What’s wrong? Sherlock, talk to me.” Molly rubbed her arms and wrapped the blanket around herself tighter over her nightshirt. She’d been about to log off her computer for the night when the bleep-bloop of a phone call came though Skype.

“I…seem to have been shot. Very annoying.” His face was tight. The lantern cast long shadows under his eyes, and she saw now the spreading redness over the shoulder of his coat.

“ _Pressure_. Apply pressure _now_.” Molly’s dormant training kicked in. “Put the laptop down! Use your fist if you have to- do you have a scarf in your pocket or something? Is it your shoulder or arm? Are you near a hospital or clinic?”

“They own the clinics ‘round here,” Sherlock mumbled. His breathing was heavy and his lips pale. “Good as dead if I go…just have to wait. Mycroft. Extraction. Waiting…you've changed your hair.”

Molly choked down the overwhelming fear, and forced herself to stay calm. _Keep him talking and conscious,_ she reminded herself.

“Can you move your legs? Never mind about my hair, Sherlock.” _Hurry, Mycroft,_ she pleaded silently.

“’S’nice. Curly. Should wear it down more…Like on Christmas. Was distracted that night…Adler.” He frowned. His eyes glazed over, and Molly fought off rising panic.“Thought about it later. Your hair, you did it for me. Didn’t open the gift you gave me. I wanted to figure out what it was first. Couldn’t…odd. Never understood why.”

Molly chewed on her fingernails and shivered. “I could tell you what it was. Would you like me to?”

“ _No_ no, ruins the game. Never understood why you would- why anyone would…Even now. There you are.” His attempt at a smile turned to an agonized wince. “Light.There you always are. My Molly. Safe. That’s good. Got Moran, did I tell you? But he got me.”

His gaze drifted to the right of the camera’s eye. “Someone’s coming.”

Molly tensed. The bloodstain over his coat was expanding by the second. “Mycroft’s men?”

“Footsteps, foreign boots…not sure. Doesn’t sound like...” He laughed. “We’ll see. Goodb-“

With a stutter and a blur, the lantern went out and the screen went black.

_Call ended._


	12. On the Horizon's Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock are far from home, and find that at least one friend still believes in the detective.

“Oh my god, it’s Mrs. Hudson!” Molly clapped her hand over her mouth.

“Where? Impossible, she never travels abroad.” Sherlock dismissed her exclamation and returned to sipping his sweet black coffee. The cinnamon pastry Molly insisted he order laid on his plate, untouched and growing stale. The terrace of the café cleared out by seven, and he and Molly were alone watching the sun set over Lake Geneva.

 After three months on the run, the few days’ quiet rest in Switzerland was a luxury. It wasn’t the romantic holiday she had wished for, fantasizing about Sherlock for years. The adventure was exciting but he rarely spoke, seeming at a loss without his usual routines and surroundings.

“No, she’s not here- she’s _here.”_ Molly tapped the newspaper that had been sent along in Mycroft’s latest packet. “In the _Evening Standard_. She’s written a letter, and they published it. About you, actually. I guess your case is still news there.” She looked up, searching Sherlock’s face for a reaction.

His lips pursed the tiniest amount and his eyes stay trained on the darkening horizon. “Sentimental pleas, I would imagine. Mrs. Hudson harbored motherly regard for me. Annoying, mostly.”

“No, she’s rather furious. Called you a lot of nasty names, actually.” Molly couldn’t keep the grin off her face.

Sherlock’s head whipped around and his eyes narrowed. He hopped out of his seat and grabbed the paper from her. Molly watched with amusement. His nostrils flared as he scanned the columns of print.

“’Bulletholes in the wall…prat…gangrenous hand in the freezer.’ Get a hold of yourself, it was one time,” he muttered. “'Men falling on her bins…inconsiderate…violin at all hours. The worst…tenant…ever.'” His eyes fell to the last sentences, and the petulant frown on his face melted into neutrality. The cold mask Sherlock presented to the world invariably rose up in its place.

He tossed the newspaper into the bin, scooped up his coat and headed for the door. “Bruges in the morning. Be ready.”

Molly watched him stride through the hotel café toward the elevator. She bent over and retrieved the paper from the bin. The last paragraph of Mrs. Hudson’s letter read:

_“Despite all those things, I’ll never believe he killed himself. He was the most frustrating young man I have ever known, but he was also the best. The police have got to reopen his case, sort it out. They owe him that much. You can’t tell me Sherlock Holmes lied about being a genius. I knew him. I would give anything to have him back, shooting the walls. To be honest, I never really cared for that wallpaper.”_

Molly stuffed the paper into the folder and hurried into the café’ to pay their cheque. When she reached their suite, Sherlock was packing his suitcase while smoking.

She snatched the cigarette from his mouth and stubbed it out in the loo sink. He was sitting on his bed staring blankly at the wall when she returned.

Molly cupped his cheeks and to her surprise, he didn’t protest. She bent in, resting her forehead against his, and slid her hands down around his neck.

“You will go home. Soon. I promise.” She squeezed tight, holding him against her, and after a moment’s tenseness, she felt his arms slip around her waist. Their heads touching, their breathing in sync, they stayed pressed together until the sun had vanished over the horizon.


	13. The Artist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief, sad take on the Pygmalion & Galatea myth, written as an anon askbox fic. Original text, with art by Lexieken, found here: http://artbylexie.tumblr.com/post/39087054865/anonfic-submission-the-artist

Molly had worked in shining gold and the smoothest marbles, but in the end, it was a statue of the palest ivory that stole her heart.

Every day she molded the shape of a beautiful man in the ivory, until his body was taller than her own and felt warm to the touch if she held the statue long enough. He was as real as anything in her world but he would grow cool as soon as she let go.

Molly prayed night after night for months for the gods to make her statue come to life, to give him a beating heart and a fine mind that would match her own. Someone to fill her nights with adventure and longing and purpose. Make the statue a real man, she prayed.

One morning she awoke to find the pedestal bare and shards of ivory scattered across the floor- and a nude man standing by the window. He gazed down at the world and saw at once the weakness and danger in it. He spoke and the low musical tones sounded through the artist’s studio, echoing like a hymn.

She bathed and dressed and fed him, and his body warmed under her fingers, but he brushed away her hands when he was ready. He thanked her, but his eyes were already focused on the streets and skies beyond her window.

He left the artist behind, his new brain already bubbling over with fresh ideas and concepts to examine, to toy with.

As he raced out the door to take on the world, without a glance behind, Molly realized that in all her praying and hoping, she had forgotten to ask the gods to give him a heart, for him to love her.


	14. Split

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock stop by Molly's flat late at night, with a request for an unusual sort of assistance.

He dragged his hands through her loose hair, working his fingertips over her scalp until she had to bite her lip to keep from purring. The strands slid between his fingers, and he cupped a lock in his palm.

His eyes were pale sea-green today, she noticed, and focused entirely on her. He traced his bottom lip with one fingertip, and then spoke in the deep baritone that often headlined in her fantasies.

 “Do you always have this many split ends?”

* * *

Molly shifted in her chair and asked, “I don’t mind helping, but how long will this take? I still have to go over my notes for the meeting tomorrow, and I need sleep.”

“You may be the only woman I’ve met who would rather look at corpses than have her hair done.” The effect of Sherlock’s biting remark was somewhat lost, being mumbled through a hair tie pinched between his lips.

Molly peered into the handheld mirror, angling it to the side to look back at him. He was dressed in his usual suit but with the sleeves rolled up. She admired the muscles in his forearms dreamily until his eyes met hers in the reflection, and his left eyebrow rose. He smirked.

She smiled and glanced away out of habit. She may have saved his life in helping fake his death and grown closer to him, but she would always feel off-balance with Sherlock Holmes. She wasn’t sure she _wanted_ to feel too comfortable with him. There was excitement in the surprise, the mystery of his strangeness. Knowing him intimately had only shown her that there was so much more to him that she didn't understand yet. 

She’d already changed into pyjamas when his demanding knock on her door dragged her from the sofa and an episode of “Skins.” Fifteen minutes later, her hair was being stroked and twisted into a updo.

The braids on her scalp were beginning to take form, the elaborate plaits forming a crown around her face.

“ _Why_ am I doing this?”

He tossed the hair tie on the table next to the combs and frowned at a wayward curl. “My beauty skills are rusty. I need a private moment with one of the regulars at a high-end salon.”  He gripped her head, forcibly tilted it to the right and pretended not to notice when Molly yawned.

“I spent a month working with a hair stylist to expose a coke ring seven years back.”

Molly pictured the abrupt detective dealing with posh ladies and their Corgis. His hands moved smoother through her hair now, caressing her scalp, and she relaxed. “So you were what, a shampoo boy? Did you have a uniform?”

“Black jeans, black t-shirt. My hair was much longer then, which seemed popular. Good tips. Shame about the drugs.”

“Odd place to be dealing from. How did you figure out that a salon was selling drugs?”

He grinned in the reflection. “Because I used to buy from them. Done.”

“Oh! That was fast.”

"Disappointed?" Sherlock threw her brush onto the table and drew his coat on. “I’ll be back when the case is done.”

Molly sighed. “Eat something this time?”

He ignored her plea.

“You could’ve practiced on a wig, you know.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Sherlock said wryly, as he looped his scarf around his neck. He bent over and brushed his lips over hers quickly. “Shouldn’t take more than a few hours. I’ll be back soon enough.”

“Promise? You were gone all night the last time. I missed y-” Her worries were brushed aside with his mouth on hers again, harder this time.

“I'll be back soon enough, if another case doesn’t come up,” he conceded when they parted. “Naturally. You really do need me to trim those split ends.”


	15. Breathless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds the perfect partner. Inspired by a prompt from a helpful tumblr anon.
> 
> This chapter is explicit.

Breathless, they stumbled into the dark alley laughing and gasping.

“I can’t believe we did that,” Molly said. “I can’t believe _I_ just did that.” Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittered. She grabbed Sherlock’s wrist. “Is this a normal night for you and John?”

“A bit of lock-picking and fleeing from angry giants has been known to happen, yes.” Sherlock shrugged, and tugged her close. “Careful, he could be following.”

Molly’s eyes widened with alarm and she looked around concerned. “I thought we lost him around Marylebone!”

“Yeah we did,” Sherlock said, pressing her back against the wall. He peered down at her with a growing smile. “But you should stay close anyway just in case.” He leaned in and took her mouth, tugging on her bottom lip with his teeth. His body molded to hers, with his thigh slipping in to nudge apart her legs.

Realizing she’d been cleverly maneuvered by her boyfriend again, Molly laughed. It turned into a shaky groan when his tongue tickled the hollow of her throat as his hand slip up her shirt.

“Bastard,” she sighed, sliding her arms around his waist and downward to cup his arse. “You love a good chase.”

“Mm yes. Your quick assessment of the putrefying finger at the site was excellent work, by the work. All in all-” His lips brushed hers. “All in all, John’s leave of absence to look after Mary and Annie has been surprisingly easy.”

“Thank you,” Molly kissed him again and shuddered, feeling him unzipping her trousers. “I’m glad you’re satisfied.”

“More than satisfied. You were amazing.” He kissed the breath from her and slid his hand down. “Brilliant.” His fingers dipped under her knickers and through her curls. “Flawless.” The heel of his hand ground against her clit. “Uniquely insightful.”

Molly wrapped her arms around his neck, dragging him down to moan into his mouth while she rode his fingers to climax. He wasted no time in the darkened alley, working her hot pussy and ignoring the desire to tear her trousers down, bend her over and fuck her in half. She would be too exposed, and he didn’t want to risk anyone else seeing his Molly. But she was glorious after the run, and she deserved the reward. She was the best partner he’d ever had, in any respect, and she deserved it all.


	16. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's assistance has been invaluable in Sherlock and Molly's relationship.
> 
> This chapter is a little explicit.

With her father gone, to Molly and Sherlock it was obvious that John Watson would be the one to walk her down the aisle. After all, he was like family to them, and had the habit of informing Sherlock of just how he was fucking up in his relationship on occasion.

On the day of the wedding, everything went off without a hitch; there were no attempted murders, much to Sherlock’s chagrin. Molly stepped down the aisle in a simple strapless gown, her long hair flowing in waves over her shoulders, happy face glowing and her arm linked with John’s. The doctor swore he saw a glimmer of wetness in the groom’s eyes at the altar (though later Sherlock would blame the chapel’s decade of dust).

On their honeymoon, Molly was once again grateful for John Watson’s assistance in her marriage. She lay moaning and writhing, with a large lump moving under the sheets between her legs. After she climaxed, Sherlock popped out from the covers and smiled proudly.

"Hell, there were some," she gasped, "Some new tricks in there. I think I’ve got a leg cramp." She laughed. He kissed her and Molly wrapped her arms around her husband, tasting herself on his lips. "Mmm, nice. So where did you learn that?"

"John."

"John." Her eyebrows rose.

"I borrowed his laptop. His library of pornography is impressive; looks like he and Mary have been expanding it lately. This was just the results of the first folder." Sherlock slid back beneath the sheets. "Would you like to find out what I learned from the second folder? Or the third?"


	17. Pinned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short ficlet of anal smut, for an inbox prompt.

It was the feeling of being pinned that did it for Molly. Spread out and pinned face-down on the mattress and fucked in her tight arse with Sherlock’s hot breath against her cheek. They’d tried different positions but always came back to her favorite- on her belly, her body pliant and blissed out from the orgasm Sherlock had already given her by going down on her. His fingers slid in and out slickly, generous with the lube in preparing her for his thick hard-on. And when it was time for him to take her, she accepted his cock with a groan, her hips lifting and legs spreading to take him deeper. He moved slowly at first, and then faster, with his hands planted on the bed. She opened more with every thrust until he was giving as hard as he could.  Molly was pinned beneath his body, and could do nothing but take everything Sherlock had to give her.


	18. A Night at the Museum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A follower requested a birthday fic with the following prompt: "Maybe Sherlock and Molly and a night spent drinking in the British Museum for reasons?"
> 
> Rating is a little mature, but not really smutty. No sex, anyway.

Molly was so overwhelmed with the opulence of the evening and the guests surrounding her that it wasn’t until Sherlock was steering her into the hall that she realized where they were.  
"Are we actually dining in the gallery of the Elgin marbles?" she whispered, her eyes wide. "That’s unbelievable."  
"Of course," he said casually, as he accepted two glasses of champagne from a waiter serving the crowd. Sherlock passed one to Molly, who was grateful to have something to occupy her fidgeting hands. Even dressed in the most elegant gown she’d ever worn and with a tuxedo-clad Sherlock Holmes on her arm, she still felt hopelessly out of place.  
She’d been thrilled when Sherlock asked her to accompany him to the gala. Apparently the case involved some obscenely wealthy lord who would be there. He’d been vague on the details, but he was firm on needing a date.  
”Can’t you just bring John? I mean who cares these days…”  
"There’ll be dancing. He’s a terrible dancer. And anyway, they’d never believe I was a guest and not working if I was there with _Dr. Watson_. The tabloid surge last year has them interested in us again. Thank you, Janine." He sighed dramatically.  
"I think you mean ‘thank you, Sherlock,’" Molly chided him gently.  
Sherlock nodded curtly. “Fair enough.”  
She had agreed to attend in the end, as he must have known she would. She loved the British Museum; she had once told him it was her favorite place in the world, after her late grandmother’s cottage in Cornwall.  
Molly sipped at her champagne as they roamed the hall, admiring the marbles, and she found herself gulping it down quicker than she intended. It was delicious, much easier to drink than the cheap bubbly she was used to. To her surprise, she realized Sherlock was actually drinking his champagne as well. He finished his glass and handed the empty one off to a passing waiter.  
"Acquiring more practical experience with drinking? I hear from Mrs. Hudson the last time didn’t go so well." Molly teased. In response, he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close. He leaned in and murmured in her ear.  
"Did she mention someone miscalculated the ideal ratio for alcohol intake?"  
Molly replied, “No, but she did mention that John bragged about slipping you shots when you weren’t looking. World-famous observation skills, hmm?” She giggled and sipped her drink. “Oh no, I’ve run out. This is amazingly good stuff. Is there more?”  
"Did he?" Sherlock’s face relaxed into understanding. "I…might not have been watching the cylinders as closely as I thought." His hand remained curled around Molly’s hip, warm and tight. She found herself leaning into him, and wondering if it was just the champagne that was making her body flush. She wrapped her arm around his waist and looked away guiltily when he glanced at her and held her gaze uncertainly.  
 _Well, I am supposed to be his date._  
The guests filtered to their seats then, and Sherlock and Molly found themselves between an Ecuadoran diplomat and a French actor who wore too much cologne. Molly tried to quietly pry more details about the case from Sherlock to be of assistance, but he shrugged her off.  
"It’s done, I have what I need. Don’t worry about it. Enjoy the food and the wine." Sherlock laid his large hand over hers on the table. His eyes searched her face. "Is it…this isn’t how you like the museum, is it?"  
"It isn’t normally how I see it, but it’s incredible." Molly’s eyes wandered to the marbles around them. She turned her hand over and squeezed Sherlock’s. _"Thank you_. Even if it wasn’t real, thank you.” She beamed at him, and felt cheered as more champagne was set before them. “Oh lovely. Well if we’re done, then no harm in having another taste is there.”  
Sherlock smiled faintly. “None at all. Try not to become ridiculous though, I would like to have a dance after dinner.”  
"Really? You dance?"  
” _Why_ does that always surprise people so much?”  
————————————-  
Hours later, they staggered into the dark, saturated with wine and laughter, their feet aching from countless spins around the dance floor. Sherlock’s bowtie was a lost cause, utied and barely hanging onto his neck with his shirt’s top few buttons undone.  
"Is this the right exit? I can’t see anything. Haven’t got my- my contact lens- ugh, it’s bloody dark. You’ve got eyes like a hawk, where are we?" Molly grabbed at Sherlock’s arm, and he used the opportunity. His arms slid around her waist, taking her into his embrace.   
"We are…I actually have no idea where we are, I deleted the layout of this wing. But we are alone." Sherlock bent in and nuzzled her throat.  
Molly cradled his head, sinking her fingers into his curls as his lips brushed over her skin. “ _Sherlock._ That’s…oh that’s nice. Are you sure you’re not…I mean you’re drinking…”  
"Mmmm, wore a damned tie, didn’t I; wasn’t drinking then, was I," he muttered against her neck. He kissed his way up to her mouth, before pulling away and meeting her eyes. "I don’t wear ties." He kissed her again harder, walking her back until she was leaning against a wall. "Thought you would like the museum though."  
"I do, I did." Molly paused between kisses. A thought occurred to her, one that seemed too absurd at first but then too pressing to ignore. "You hate ties and formal events, but we stayed anyway after you said we were done."  
"Yep." Sherlock tilted his head and took her earlobe between his teeth.  
"But we didn’t even do anything to begin with, really, we never…" Molly’s hands ceased roaming over his back and shoulders. "Was there ever even a case?"  
"In the strictest definition of the word?" Sherlock slid one hand down to dip into the bodice of her dress, teasing a nipple into hardness while his lips took hers again.  
As much as she didn’t want to, Molly covered his hand with hers, forcing him to slow his movements. “Sherlock- was this a real date?”  
She saw it in his face for a second, the smooth blandness that he assumed so easily and so often when he worked, the mask that covered everything safely. He almost denied it, and in the old days would probably have thrown in a bit of rude posturing that would have him back in control.  
But this was now, and they weren’t the same anymore.  
"Yes." He stepped back from her, and folded his hands together in front of him. "If you accept."  
Molly studied his face seriously for a moment and then shivered.  And then she laughed. “Obviously I accept. I’m _freezing!_ Come back and warm me up.”  
She was wrapped up in his arms again in a heartbeat, with his mouth pressed to hers and his hands stroking her back. “Next time do things in the proper order though and ask first, alright, Sherlock?”  
"Doing things properly is _boring._ ”  
They might have joined together in laughter if the flash of a camera pointed in their direction hadn’t startled them.  
————————————————————  
"It’s not the worst article I’ve ever seen."  
Sherlock gave her a withering glance.  
Molly bit her lip to stifle a smirk and picked up the newspaper to purchase a copy. The photograph wasn’t very flattering but how many people were lucky enough to have such a memento of their first date with a man they were wild about?  
The headline did leave something to be desired though.  
'SHAG-A-LOT HOLMES STRIKES AGAIN'


	19. Conception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheer filthy baby-making ficlet.

Sherlock had it all planned out. The positions they would use, the timing, even the pillow he would slide under her hips at just the right moment, tilting her pelvis to maximize the likelihood of Molly conceiving a child. He had researched optimal conditions with his wife’s assistance and determined what would be most comfortable and conducive to success. He had envisioned the technical details and had neglected, in his usual manner, to investigate the raw sensory and connected emotional aspects of their endeavor.

The ones that could only be experienced. No research could have told him how it felt anyway; he knew that now.

Sherlock hooked his arms under his wife’s knees, lifting her legs up and pulling her flush to him. Molly gazed up at him happily, her hair wild around her like a halo. Her body was rosy pink, her nipples pebbled and wet from his kisses. Her hands roamed between her legs, spreading her pussy and rubbing her clit while Sherlock moved his cock into position near her cunt. Molly wiggled against him, whispering pleas.

He hovered over her, savoring her eagerness for him. He’d never loved his Molly more, felt such an aching need and disbelief when she looked up at him with trust. Their purpose that night had created in him the desire to fuck her more than he’d ever felt before, the burning need to bury his cock into her so hard she’d barely be able to stand the next day.  The primal need to brand her from the inside out. It made no sense (he suspected he was losing IQ points in even thinking it) but there it was: his cock was the hardest it had ever been, leaking at the thought of Molly swelling with his baby.

Sherlock stroked himself, nudging into her slit.

“Do it,” she demanded in her sweet voice. Molly’s fingernails dug into his hips. “Fuck me. Give me your cum.”

“You’re ready then. For all of it.”

“Yes. _Now,_ dammit.”

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Need to fill you up.” And then he was inside her and moving.

They rocked together, her body drawing the hot cum from him into her womb. And Sherlock thought, before he lost the gift of rational intelligence, how strange it was that he was the one who should feel so completely filled by the experience.


	20. Sprinkles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Teenlock. Sprinkler system  
> Rated T

Molly Hooper loved being friends with Sherlock Holmes; she had ever since primary school. He was wonderful fun, and always came up with the best ideas to fill long dull afternoons when their parents abandoned them to their own devices. He could be a little snot, her mum said, but Molly didn’t mind too much. He didn’t lie to her the way adults always did. When her dad fell ill, adults kept insisting not to worry, he would get better and would be home in no time at all, but their eyes told her they were lying. Their eyes, and Sherlock.

He stood behind her at the funeral when they were twelve, and she felt the briefest brush of his fingers against hers just before he disappeared from the crowd. He never could abide formal occasions, or the tie his mother forced him into.

He pulled away sometimes, as was his way over the years, but he always came back. She accepted it with a shrug. She couldn’t imagine her life without him in it, and if she longed for more, well that was between her and her diary. There was no problem at all being friends with Sherlock, she told herself, until sixth form. They were lab partners in their advanced biology course and formulating a new experiment their teacher would have disapproved of when another student approached them.

“Molly, hi!”

“Tom, hey. How are you?” She grinned at the tall boy nearing her desk. He was gawky and clumsy but he always made her laugh in music classes.

“I, uh, I was wondering, do you have a date for the dance yet. By any chance.” He paused, and his eyes grew wider and darted around anxiously. “And if you didn’t, wouldyouliketogowithme.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. Molly flushed and dropped her pencil. “Oh! Uh, no. I mean, yes! I mean no, I don’t have a date and yes I can go with you.”

Sherlock leaned forward on his stool and fiddled with the Bunsen burner. He added another ingredient to the container held over it.

“Great! That’s…great.” Tom smiled. “So can I call you, I guess, to work out the time to pick you up?”

“Right, good idea.” Molly scribbled her phone number on a scrap of paper and passed it to the boy.

Sherlock added another ingredient to the vial and drummed his fingers on the counter. “Are you finished? We’ve an experiment in progress.”

“Sure, sorry! Thanks!” Tom grinned happily and turned to leave. “Bye Molly. Call ya!” He hurried from the room.

“Really, Molly? Him?!” Sherlock sniffed in Tom’s departed direction. He tossed another ingredient into the vial over the flame. “Hardly worth your time. He doesn’t wear deodorant and he also has a crush on Maisie Winters.”

“He’s nice,” she said defensively. “And I want to go to the dance. And you won’t go to school events, and there’s no one else I would ask, and-“

“How do you know?” he snapped, his eyes cool. “You didn’t ask!”

“Well neither did you!” Molly retorted, her temper rising. She leaned over from her stool and poked Sherlock in the chest, not noticing her elbow bumping her textbook. “If you think you can just sit there and do nothing and then get angry when I try to accept an invitation from-“

“Keep quiet, even our idiot of a teacher will notice if you start shouting,” Sherlock hissed, touching her arm. “I know how to dance, as it happens.  I was just waiting-“ He shook his head, rustling his curls. “Oh, for God’s sake.” He leaned in, grabbed Molly’s shoulders and kissed her in full view of their classmates.

After a moment’s shock, Molly wrapped her arms around him, leaning into Sherlock and opening her mouth to him. Sinking her hands into his silky hair, she pulled him close and kissed him hard in return, showing him all the love that had been in her heart for all those years.

As she slid deeper into his embrace, Sherlock holding her tightly while their classmates stared (their teacher blissfully dozing at her desk), Molly’s elbow bumped her textbook again, harder this time- knocking it into the base of the Bunsen burner.

The burner knocked over the holder and clamp that secured that vial, spilling the noxious fluids he’d been adding steadily throughout the period. The small pool of ingredients crashed and instantly ignited as Sherlock and Molly kissed, triggering the sprinkler system overhead.

Their first kiss ended with a spectacular soaking and a stern talking-to about the danger of combustible substances. Sherlock and Molly weathered the speech with their hands entwined under the table.


	21. Diabolical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her way was the only way.
> 
> Explicit, with BDSM and sex

He was drifting off, coasting on a wave of endorphins and the bliss that came from letting go.

 _Oh no, that won’t do at all_ , Molly thought. _Much too soon._

The crack of her palm against his cheek brought him back to her, centered. Sherlock’s eyes flew to her, alert and ready to serve, and his thighs stiffened, straightening his kneeling posture. He clasped his hands together tighter behind his back. She was proud of him, so well trained now that he didn’t even need his hands bound most of the time.

The only restraint necessary these days was the gag. His smart mouth was still his weakness- and his strength, she thought, fondly. Molly smiled, running her hand through his curls and tugging. She tipped his head back, and his blazing gaze did all the talking for him. The bright blue-green eyes burned for her, betraying his feeling as much as his hard cock did. Molly knelt down and took his dick in her fist, stroking him thoughtfully while she considered the cloth gag still tied tightly around his head.

“I _could_ remove it. Would you like that?” she offered quietly. She never raised her voice when they played. It wasn’t her way.

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically, slightly raising his hands to remove the gag before he caught himself. He resumed his position, swallowing hard with his impatience overwhelming him.

“You’re doing so much better with the gag. But that was a mistake, and you know it,” Molly said, laughing. She stood and wrapped her arms around Sherlock, playing with the knot of the cloth at the back of his head. She pressed him forward until his nose was buried into her bare skin, his breath hot on her. “Have you regressed?” She untied the knot and dropped the fabric, and massaged the skin the cloth had rubbed against.

Sherlock licked his lips and looked her in the eye. “No, mistress. It was a one-time error. Won’t happen again. I’m certain of it.”

“You’re _always_ certain, aren’t you, Sherlock.” Molly brushed a kiss on his lips, and he leaned into her, his hands folded behind his back. “So arrogant. That’s why it took you so long to learn before. So long to admit you needed me,” she said. “You need to learn the proper way.”

She idly traced circles over his sculpted shoulders, and then without warning, set her fingernails into his skin. Sherlock’s cock bobbed with the flash of mild pain and his eyes glowed.

“On your back, now.” She pushed once, and he obeyed instantly, lying on the carpet alongside the bed, waiting to see what his mistress demanded of him.

Molly stripped her knickers off, leaving her as nude as Sherlock. She straddled his torso and cupped his cheek. “The proper way, my love, as you know is _my_ way. You’ll learn. Arms up. Fingertips stay touching the edge of the wall.” She grinned, her dimples deepening as she shifted and crawled forward.

Sherlock placed his hands over his head, understanding now he was to be denied complete participation in his favorite activity. He stretched his arms back until his fingers brushed the wall of her bedroom. He flexed his fingers once more, and steeled himself for the last onslaught of his mistress.

Molly settled her knees around his head, lowering herself until the curly brown hair between her legs tickled his lips. He groaned before he could stop himself, and she laughed. “Poor Sherlock. Told you you had more to learn. No speaking, or moaning, or _anything_ , until you make me come. Silence. And your hands stay where they are- or I’ll finish myself, and you won’t finish at all.”

He almost swore right then. _Diabolical._

It was why he loved her.

She reached between her thighs and spread herself for him, tilting forward until her already-wet pussy brushed his lips. He hesitated, waiting for the order to be certain.

“Now, dammit,” she breathed. “Lick me, suck me. Make me come, love.”

He didn’t require any more commands. His tongue was hers to use, moving with every rock of her hips, lapping up her juices and creating more with his efforts. She rode his face, rolling her cunt against his mouth and rubbing her clit with his nose. Molly laughed happily as he strained to dip his tongue deeper into her. He shook with frustration about not being allowed to use his hands to haul her snugly to his face.

Under the normal course of things, he would cup her arse and massage her muscles with his big hands, kneading her and urging her to fuck his face hard. He loved it, he lived for it, and it was torture to have to lay limply with his arms outstretched. His fingers flexed uselessly near the wall, beneath Molly’s eyes. She braced herself against the wall as she straddled his face and gazed down at his curly head working furiously between her thighs. She loved finding new ways to challenge him, she loved watching him summon his strength and passion to please her and most of all, she loved him.

Molly’s hands fell from the wall, sank into his hair, and squeezed his curls as she came, her belly shaking with the ripples of spine-tingling pleasure rolling through her. She slumped as she came down from her climax, and gingerly laid down on the carpet beside Sherlock.

After her breath returned to her, Molly hopped up and smiled. Sherlock maintained his pose with his hands touching the wall. He met her gaze, and she saw in them the desire to touch her, but no intentions. He waited patiently.

“Right, I’m going to go fix a plate. Back in a few. Stay there.” Molly giggled and headed for her kitchen. She opened her refrigerator, and even looked inside for a minute to make a good show of it before racing back to the bedroom- to find Sherlock still in the same position.

“Oh good.” Molly smiled tentatively. Warmth suffused her and she hurried over to him. Hovering over Sherlock, he met her eyes with raised brows.

“Oh, get on the bed and make love to me, you idiot,” she said, rolling her eyes. Molly nudged him with her toe and added, “And you can talk now.” She shrugged and jumped onto the bed. Sherlock sighed with relief and crawled after her, taking her into his arms.

She kissed his cheek, and pulled him down to her. “I’d quite like to hear you shouting my name when you’re coming. That’s my way too. I’ve got _lots_ of ways that are mine, just so you know.”

“Looking forward to learning them all,” Sherlock murmured.


	22. Dirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time they had sex, both of them barely uttered a word. The second time they were together, three weeks after his ‘death’, he swore under his breath when she sucked him into her mouth and made him see stars. During the third time, only a few days later, Sherlock spoke and it was as if a dam broke.
> 
> Explicit, sex with dirty talk.

The first time they had sex, both of them barely uttered a word. Shock that the adrenaline-fueled incident occurred at all robbed them of their voices. The silence only broke after they showered and dressed, and were watching the report about his suicide on the news.

The second time they were together, three weeks after his ‘death’, he swore under his breath when she sucked him into her mouth and made him see stars. Her tongue slid along the rigid length of him and the profane whisper was something between a blessing and a demand. Molly moaned with him in her throat and swallowed hard until he finally gave into the sensation and thrust into her mouth roughly.

During the third time, only a few days later, Sherlock spoke and it was as if a dam broke.

At first he was gentle, driving her legs further apart with the rocking of his body on hers. He was careful, his lack of experience apparent in his awkward touching. Frustrated by his hesitation, Molly dug her nails into his sides, and begged him to fuck her harder.

His piercing cat’s eyes gleamed down at her in the dark, and Molly clenched tighter around his cock.

“Talk to me,” she pled. His voice was what drew her to him initially and his baritone still gave her goosebumps.

“I can’t say what you want to hear, Molly,” he gritted out, his lower half still pumping into her. His hips snapped again, his cock sinking back into her heat. “Fuck,” he swore, his face reddened. “I can’t- _fuck_ , you feel so fucking good.” He dropped his face onto the pillow besides her head, and rolled off her body.

Molly opened her mouth to protest, but then felt his hands grab hold of her waist from the side.

 “Get on top,” he ordered. “Ride me.”

She scrambled on top of him, and took his thickness back inside her, guiding him in until she was seated. Her eyes met his, and they began to move together again instinctively, his cock gliding through her wetness.

“Tell me how it feels. Dirty,” Molly gasped, rocking. “Do you like it?”

“Yes.” His fingertips slipped between their bodies to tease her clitoris while she rode and moaned appreciatively. “It’s- good. Wet.” He sucked his fingers soaked with her juices into his mouth. “Salty. Musky.”

Molly threw her head back and rode harder, her tits bouncing. “God I’m going to come. I’m going to come for you. Do you, do you want that?” She circled her hips around, stirring him inside her. “Do you want to come in my pussy?”

Sherlock’s face flushed darker. He sat bolt upright and grabbed her waist, startling Molly. He rolled her back underneath, and she squealed happily.

“ _Yes,”_ he said with a groan, thrusting back inside her. “I’m going to come inside you. Fill you up, give it to you.”

“Harder,” Molly begged, digging her nails into his arse.

“I love your pussy. I’ve wanted to fuck you since I first met you, did you know that? Used to dream about eating your cunt,” his hips snapped into her harder, “with nothing but your lab coat on at Barts. Legs in the air and my tongue in your pussy. Fuck, I’m gonna come.” Pistoning into her, Sherlock rode Molly until they were a moaning mess.

Molly came with a prolonged surprised squeak that made Sherlock grin with absurd masculine pride. A moment later she watched his face contort, and felt his cock spasm, his hot come filling her as he’d promised with her legs locked around him.


	23. Hit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon prompt: Au where Molly is orderd by Moriarty to keep an eye on Sherlock but uups she falls for him. After a year filled with romance and frick frack, Moriarty orders her to kill him, she does so and becomes wrecked with sorrow and guilt and kills herself.
> 
> Provided my own twists on the tale. Trigger warning for suicide, murder and bloodiness.

She’d always known it had to end this way, from the moment she first saw him hovering over a corpse in the morgue, but it didn’t make it any easier to pull the trigger.

  
"What’s that for?" Lying naked beneath her, Sherlock smirked up at the barrel of her gun as though it was a joke, but she saw uncertainty in his eyes. "Normally if you’re feeling kinky, you do still close the curtains. I think Mrs. Turner’s getting an eyeful. Does that excite you? Someone watching us?" He stroked the insides of her bare thighs until she shivered and opened for him, and his gaze softened.

  
Molly squeezed her knees around his hips. The muscles of her belly and calves ached from the shapes he’d bent her into, twisting and taking her until she came moaning just a few moments ago. She felt sticky and lethargic with the lingering heat of their bodies.

  
Her face was grim as her finger tightened. “There’s someone watching, yes. He was always watching. He owed you a fall. But now the game is over.” She tipped the barrel of the gun toward Sherlock’s heart, and knew the exact second when he understood.

  
"No, you love me. I know you do-"

  
 She cut him off, hoarsely:

  
"This is what it means to fall."

  
She pulled the trigger.

 

* * *

  
"If you’re going to do it, just get it over with and stop boring me. You were so much more fun before the hat man." Jim rolled his eyes and hopped out of the chair.

  
"Fuck off." Molly drained the wine from her glass, and refilled it. Had she drunk all of that today or was that yesterday’s bottle? She couldn’t remember. She used to note the level in the bottle each day with a black mark, so she could keep track. That struck her as hilarious now.

  
"I only came by to pay you. You’ve been avoiding my messenger for months. How _rude,_ " Jim crooned. A paper with a string of numbers for an untraceable account fluttered to the floor. Molly ignored it, and stared at the wall, sipping her bitter wine.

  
Jim tilted his head to the side and studied her with hooded eyes. “You’re not going to take it, are you. Tsk. Tsk. He was something special, wasn’t he. But not worth this.”  
  
Jim grinned and shrugged, and strolled toward the door. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out a handgun and laid it gently on the counter. He patted it with a soft smile, and waved farewell as he closed her flat door and headed toward the stairs.   
  
There wasn’t even a hitch in his stride when he heard the blast of a gun before he reached the street.

* * *

  
The flowers for her grave were deep pink- tulips, her favorite. Red was too unsubtle for her. There was nothing secretive about red.

  
Jim dropped the bundle, still wrapped in paper, atop the mound. Buds of green grass were springing through the soil. He tapped the loose edges of dirt with his Nike-clad toes.

  
"Well. I knew you were willing to die for someone, but to be honest, I thought it would be me." Jim laughed. "I wore my disguise in your honor. The good old days," he added looking down at his white v-neck t-shirt and jeans. Jim from I.T.’s casual outfits had been a huge source of amusement for Molly. "I didn’t really think you’d do it," he huffed. "But I suppose it’s for the best."

  
He spun around to leave and-

  
"Yes I rather think it was," Molly replied. Stepping out from behind a tall granite monument, she smiled and waved hello.

  
Jim’s dark eyes looked glacial in the sunny afternoon light. He tilted his head and scanned the cemetery. The land was crowded with gravestones and bushes lining the narrow lanes between the old and new sections. In the distance, mourners filed into chairs around a fresh site.

  
"It was the grass. I should’ve known. Should be anchored more firmly, and taller if it’s been growing this long. The soil’s loose." Jim smiled tightly. "Your sense of humour needs work. But as pranks go, this is stellar." His grin disappeared. "Revenge, was it? For Loverboy?"

  
"Not quite," another, deeper voice remarked. "More like escape."

  
"Yes, escape," Molly agreed as a very much alive Sherlock joined her and slid his arm around her waist.

  
"What did I see that night?" Jim craned his neck around slowly, and scanned the cemetery again.

  
"A well-orchestrated play. After the sex. The sex part was very real."

  
"Sherlock," Molly admonished him. "There’s no time for taunting." Without another word, she slipped a hand into her coat, drew out a gun, and leveled it at Jim’s chest.

  
"Aren’t you worried about witnesses?" Jim asked carefully.

  
"Who, them?" Sherlock pointed at the mourners. "My homeless network. Knew you would only feel safe enough to stop by when there was a crowd to blend into on the way in." As he spoke, the crowd of ‘mourners’ dissolved into the fading afternoon.

  
Sherlock shrugged. “So this is-“

  
Molly lifted her arm higher and silently fired two bullets into Jim’s face. Sherlock jumped in surprise, as the consulting criminal crumpled to the ground in a mess of blood and bone.

  
"That’s your problem, Sherlock. You talk too much. You and him both. Get the job done, THEN talk." Molly smiled, stuffing the gun and silencer back into her coat. "Sorry if scared you."

  
"Mycroft will be angry. He wanted to question him."

  
Molly looked ruefully at the body. “I’m sorry, love.”

  
"I’m not. Cheesed-off Mycroft is fantastic fun. Shall we call him in?" Sherlock stripped off his coat to cover the body.

  
She glanced at the ruined criminal’s form. “I think we’d better. My resources aren’t what they used to be. Sherlock?”

  
"Hmm?" He looked up from his kneeling position by the body.

  
"I love you."

  
He smiled. “I know you do.”


End file.
